a 1 1 


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PUNCH.” 


fit 


MES. CAUDLE’S 

JI1RTAII LECTURES. 

W ^ V '. , 

By “PUNCH.” 


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Mr & Mrs . Caudl, 







MRS. CAUDLE’S 


CURTAIN LECTURES. 


' Yyrcvc-- 


"PUNCH." 




WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PHILADELPHIA : 
CAREY AND HART. 


1845 . 

L . 







STEREOTYPED BY J. FAGAN. 

PRINTED BY T. K. AND P. G. COLLINS, PHILADELPHIA. 



/ 



CONTENTS. 


LECTURE I. 

Page 

Mr. Caudle has lent Five pounds to a Friend . . 5 

LECTURE II. 

Mr. Caudle has been at a Tavern with a Friend 9 
LECTURE III. 

Mr. Caudle joins a Club, — “The Skylarks” 14 

LECTURE IV. 

Mr. Caudle has been called from his Bed to bail 
Mr. Prettyman from the Watch-house 18 

LECTURE V. 

Mr. Caudle has remained down Stairs till past 
One, with a Friend 20 

LECTURE VI. 

Mr. Caudle has lent an Acquaintance the Family 
Umbrella. Mrs. Caudle Lectures thereon.. 23 

(3) 


IV 


CO NT ENTS 


LECTURE VII. 

Mr. Caudle has ventured a Remonstrance on his 
Day’s Dinner: cold Mutton, and no Pudding. 
Mrs. Caudle defends the cold Shoulder 27 

LECTURE VIII. 

Caudle has been made a Mason. — Mrs. Caudle in- 
dignant and curious 31 

LECTURE IX. 

Mr. Caudlk has been to Greenwich Fair 35 

LECTURE X. 

On Mr. Caudle’s Shirt-buttons 39 


MRS. CAUDLE’S 


CURTAIN LECTURES. 


LECTURE I. 

MR. CAUDLE HAS LENT FIVE POUNDS TO A FRIEND. 

“ You ought to be very rich, Mr. Caudle. I 
wonder who’d lend you five pounds ? But so it 
is : a wife may work and may slave ! Ha, dear ! 
the many things that might have been done with 
five pounds ! As if people picked up money in the 
street ! But you always were a fool, Mr. Caudle ! 
I ’ve wanted a black satin gown these three years, 
and that five pounds would have pretty well 
bought it. But it ’s no matter how I go, — not at 
all. Every body says I don’t dress as becomes 
your wife — and I don’t : but what’s that to you, 
Mr. Caudle ? Nothing. Oh no ! you can have 
fine feelings for everybody but those belonging to 
you. I wish people knew you, as I do — that ’s 
all. You like to be called liberal — and your poor 
family pays for it. 

“All the girls want bonnets, and when they’re 
to get ’em i can’t tell. Half five pounds would 
have bought ’em — but now they must go without. 
Of course, they belong to you ; and anybody but 
your own flesh and blood, Mr. Caudle. 

“ The man called for the water-rate, to-day ; 
but I should like to know how people are to pay 
1 * ( 5 ) 


(i 


MRS. CAUDLE’S 


taxes, who throw away five pounds to every fellow 
that asks them. 

“ Perhaps you don’t know that Jack, this morn- 
ing, knocked his shuttle-cock through his bed-room 
window. I was going to send for the glazier to 
mend it ; but after you lent that five pounds I was 
sure we couldn’t afford it. Oh, no ! the window* 
must go as it is; and pretty weather for a dear 
child to sleep with a broken window. He ’s got 
a cold already on his lungs, and I shouldn’t at all 
wonder if that broken window settled him — if the 
dear boy dies, his death will be upon his father’s 
head ; for I ’m sure we can’t now pay to mend 
windows. We might though, and do a good many 
more things, if people didn’t throw away their 
five pounds. 

“Next Tuesday the fire-insurance is due. I 
should like to know how it ’s to be paid ! Why, 
it can’t be paid at all. That five pounds would 
have just done it- — and now, insurance is out of 
the question. And there never were so many fires 
as there are now. I shall never close my eyes all 
night, — but what ’s that to you, so people can call 
you liberal Mr. Caudle ? Your wife and children 
may all be burnt alive in their beds — as all of us 
to a certainty shall be, for the insurance must 
drop. And after we ’ve insured for so many years ! 
But how, I should like to know, are people to in- 
sure who make ducks and drakes of their five 
pounds ? 

“ I did think we might go to Margate this sum- 
mer. There ’s poor little Caroline, I ’m sure she 
wants the sea. But no, dear creature ! she must 
stop at home — all of us must stop at home — she ’ll 
go into a consumption, there ’s no doubt of that ; 
yes — sweet little angel ! — I ’ve made up my mind 
to lose her, now. The child might have been 


CURTAIN LECTURES. 


7 


saved ; but people can’t save their children and 
throw away their five pounds too. 

“ I wonder where poor little Cherub is ! While 
you were lending that five pounds, the dog ran 
out of the shop. You know, I never let it go into 
the street, for fear it should be bit by some mad 
dog, and come home and bite all the children. It 
wouldn’t now at all astonish me if the animal was 
to come back with the hydrophobia and give it to 
all the family. However, what ’s your family to 
you, so you can play the liberal creature with five 
pounds ? 

“ Do you hear that shutter, how it ’s banging 
to and fro ? Yes, — I know what it wants as well 
as you, it wants a new fastening. I was going to 
send for the blacksmith to-day. But now it ’s out 
of the question : now it must bang of nights, since 
you ’ve thrown away five pounds. 

“ Well, things are come to a pretty pass ! This 
is the first night I ever made my supper off roast 
beef without pickles. But who is to afford pickles 
when folks are always lending five pounds ? 

“ Ha ! there’s the soot falling down the chimney. 
If I hate the smell of anything, it ’s the smell of 
soot. And you know it ; but what are my feelings 
to you ? Sweep the chimney ! Yes, it ’s all very 
fine to say, sweep the chimney — but how are 
chimneys to be sw^ept — how are they to be paid 
for by people who don’t take care of their five 
pounds? 

“ Do you hear the mice running about the room ? 
I hear them. If they were only to drag you out 
of bed, it would be no matter. Set a trap for 
them ! Yes, it ’s easy enough to say — set a trap 
for ’em. But how are people to afford the cheese, 
when every day they lose five pounds ? 

“ Hark ! I ’m sure there ’s a noise down stairs. 


8 


MRS. CAUDLE’S 


It wouldn’t at all surprise me if there were thieves 
in the house. Well, it may be the cat ; but thieves 
are pretty sure to come in some night. There ’s 
a wretched fastening to the back-door ; but these 
are not times to afford bolts and bars, when fools 
wont take care of their five pounds. 

“ Mary Anne ought to have gone to the dentist’s 
to-morrow. She wants three teeth taken out. 
Now, it can’t be done. Three teeth that quite 
disfigure the child’s mouth. But there they must 
stop, and spoil the sweetest face that was ever 
made. Otherwise, she ’d have been a wife for a 
lord. Now, when she grows up, who’ll have her? 
Nobody. We shall die, and leave her alone and 
unprotected in the world. But what do you care 
for that? Nothing; so you can squander away 
five pounds. 

“And now, see, Mr. Caudle, what a misery 
you ’ve brought upon your wretched family ! I 
can’t have a satin gown — the girls can’t have new 
bonnets — the water-rate must stand over — Jack 
must get his death through a broken window — 
our fire-insurance can’t be paid, so we shall all 
fall victims to the devouring element — we can’t 
go to Margate, and Caroline will go to an early 
grave — the dog will come home and bite us all 
mad — that shutter will go banging for ever — the 
soot will always fall — the mice never let us have 
a wink of sleep — thieves be always breaking in 
the house — and our dear Mary Anne be for ever 
left an unprotected maid, — and all, all, Mr. Caudle, 
because you will go on lending five pounds !” 


CURTAIN LECTURES. 


9 


LECTURE II. 

MR. CAUDLE HAS BEEN AT A TAVERN WITH A FRIEND. 

oor me ! Ha ! I ’m 
sure I don’t know 
who ’d be a poor 
woman ! I don’t 
know who ’d tie 
themselves up to a 
man, if they knew 
only half they ’d 
have to bear. A 
wife must stay at 
home, and be a 
drudge, whilst a 
man can go any- 
where. It’s enough 
for a wife to sit 
like Cinderella by 
the ashes, whilst 
her husband can 
go drinking and 
singing at a tavern. 
You never sing! 
How do I know 
you never sing ? 
It ’s very well for 
you to say so ; but 
if I could hear you, 
I dare say you’re 
among the worst 
of ’em. 

“And now, I sup- 
pose, it will be the tavern every night. If you 



10 


MRS. CAUDLE ’s 


think I’m going to sit up for you, Mr. Caudle, 
you ’re very much mistaken. No : and I ’m not 
going to get out of my warm bed to let you in, 
either. No : nor Susan shan’t sit up for you. No : 
nor you shan’t have a latch-key. I ’m not going 
to sleep with the door upon the latch, to be mur- 
dered before the morning. 

“ Faugh ! Pah ! Whewgh ! That filthy tobacco 
smoke ! It ’s enough to kill any decent woman. 
You know I hate tobacco, and yet you will do it. 
You don’t smoke yourself! What of that? If you 
go among people who do smoke, you ’re just as 
bad, or worse. You might as well smoke — in- 
deed, better. Better smoke yourself than come 
home with other people’s smoke in your hair. 

“ I never knew any good come to a man who 
went to a tavern. Nice companions he picks up 
there ! Yes ; people who make it a boast to treat 
their wives like slaves, and ruin their families. 
There’s that wretch, Prettyman. See what he’s 
come to. He doesn’t now get home till two in 
the morning; and then in what a state! He be- 
gins quarrelling with the door-mat, that his poor 
wife may be afraid to speak to him. A mean 
wretch! But don’t you think I’ll be like Mrs. 
Prettyman. No : I wouldn’t put up with it from 
the best man that ever trod. You ’ll not make 
me afraid to speak to you, however you may 
swear at the door-mat. No, Mr. Caudle, that you 
won’t. 

“ You don’t intend to stay out till two in the 
morning ! How do you know what you ’ll do 
when you get among such people? Men can’t 
answer for themselves when they get boozing one 
with another. They never think of their poor 
wives, who are grieving and wearing themselves 


CURTAIN LECTURES. 


11 


out at home. A nice headache you ’ll have to- 
morrow morning — or rather this morning; for it 
must be past twelve. You won’t have a head- 
ache ! It ’s very well for you to say so, but I 
know you will ; and then you may nurse yourself 
for me. Ha! that filthy tobacco again! No: I 
shall not go to sleep like a good soul ! How ’s 
people to go to sleep when they ’re suffocated ? 

“Yes, Mr. Caudle, you ’ll be nice and ill in the 
morning ! But don’t you think I ’m going to let 
you have your breakfast in bed, like Mrs. Pretty- 
man. I ’ll not be such a fool. No : nor I won’t 
have discredit brought upon the house by sending 
for soda-water early, for all the neighbourhood to 
say, ‘ Caudle was drunk last night !* No : I ’ve 
some regard for the dear children, if you havn’t. 
No : nor you shan’t have broth for dinner. Not 
a neck of mutton crosses my threshold, I can tell 
you. 

“ You won’t want soda, and you won’t want 
broth ! All the better. You wouldn’t get ’em if 

you did, I can assure you. Dear, dear, dear ! 

That filthy tobacco ! I ’m sure it ’s enough to 
make me as bad as you are. Talking about get- 
ting divorced, — I ’m sure tobacco ought to be good 
grounds. How little does a woman think when 
she marries, that she gives herself up to be poison- 
ed ! You men contrive to have it all of your own 
side, you do. Now if I was to go and leave you 
and the children, a pretty noise there ’d be ! You, 

however, can go and smoke no end of pipes 

You didn’t smoke! It’s all the same, Mr. Cau- 
dle, if you go among smoking people. Folks are 
known by their company. You’d better smoke 
yourself, than bring me home the pipes of all the 
world. 


12 


MRS. CAUDLE’S 


“ Yes, I see how it will be. Now you ’ve once 
gone to a tavern, you ’ll always be going. You’ll 
be coming home tipsy every night ; and tumbling 
down and breaking your leg, and putting out your 
shoulder ; and bringing all sorts of disgrace and 
expense upon us. And then you ’ll be getting into 
a street fight — oh ! I know your temper too well 
to doubt it, Mr. Caudle — and be knocking down 
some of the police. And then I know what will 
follow. It must follow. Yes, you ’ll be sent for 
a month or six weeks to the treadmill. Pretty 
thing that, for a respectable tradesman, Mr. Cau- 
dle, to be put upon the treadmill with all sorts of 
thieves and vagabonds, and — there, again, that 
horrible tobacco ! — and riff-raff of every kind. I 
should like to know how your children are to hold 
up their heads, after their father has been upon 

the treadmill? No: I won't go to sleep. And’ 

I ’m not talking of what ’s impossible. I know it 
will all happen — every bit of it. If it wasn’t for 
the dear children, you might be ruined and I 
wouldn’t so much as speak about it, but — oh, dear, 
dear ! at least you might go where they smoke 
good tobacco — but I can’t forget that I ’m their 
mother. At least, they shall have one parent. 

“ Taverns ! Never did a man go to a tavern who 
didn’t die a beggar. And how your pot-compan- 
ions will laugh at you when they see your name 
in the Gazette! For it must happen. Your busi- 
ness is sure to fall off; for what respectable peo- 
ple will buy toys for their children of a drunkard? 
You ’re not a drunkard ! No : but you will be — 
it ’s all the same. 

“You’ve begun by staying out till midnight. 
By-and-by ’t will be all night. But don’t you 
think, Mr. Caudle, you shall ever have a key. I 


CURTAIN LECTURES. 


13 


know you. Yes ; you ’d do exactly like that 
Prettyman, and what did he do, only last Wed- 
nesday '( Why, he let himself in about four in 
the morning, and brought home with him his pot- 
companion, Leanly. His dear wife woke at six, 
and saw Prettyman’s dirty boots at her bed-side. 
And where was the wretch, her husband 1 Why, 
he was drinking down stairs — swilling. Yes; 
worse than a midnight robber, he’d taken the 
keys out of his dear wife’s pockets — ha ! what 
that poor creature has to bear! — and had got at 
the brandy. A pretty thing for a wife to wake at 
six in the morning, and instead of her husband to 
see his dirty boots ! 

“ But I ’ll not be made your victim, Mr. Cau- 
dle, not I. Y’ou shall never get at my keys, for 
they shall lie under my pillow — under my own 
head, Mr. Caudle. 

“ You ’ll be ruined, but if I can help it, you 
shall ruin nobody but yourself. 

“ Oh ! that hor — hor — hor — i — ble tob — ac — co!” 


2 


* 


14 


MRS. CAUDLE ’ 8 


LECTURE III. 

MR. CAUDLE JOINS A CLUB,— “ THE SKYLARKS ” 

“Pm sure a poor woman had better be in her 
grave than married! That is, if she can’t be 
married to a decent man! No: I don’t care if 
you are tired, I shan’t let you go to sleep. No, 
and I won’t say what I have to say in the morn- 
ing; I’ll say it now. It’s all very well for you 
to come home at what time you like — it’s now 
half-past twelve — and expect I’m to hold my 
tongue, and let you go to sleep. What next, I 
wonder ? A woman had better be sold for a slave 
at once. 

“ And so you ’ve gone and joined a club ! The 
Skylarks, indeed ! A pretty skylark you ’ll make 
of yourself! But I won’t stay and be ruined by 
you. No : I ’m determined of that. I ’ll go and 
take the dear children, and you may get who you 
like to keep your house. That is, as long as you 
have a house to keep — and that won’t be long, I 
know. 

u How any decent man can go and spend his 
nights in a tavern! — oh, yes, Mr. Caudle; I dare 
say you do go for rational conversation. I should 
like to know how many of you would care for 
what you call rational conversation, if you had it 
without your filthy brandy-and-water ; yes, and 
your more filthy tobacco-smoke. I ’m sure the 
last time you came home, I had the head-ache for 
a week. But I know who it is who ’s taking you 
to destruction. It ’s that brute, Prettyman. He 


CURTAIN LECTURES. 


15 


has broken his own poor wife’s heart, and now he 
wants to — but don’t you think it, Mr. Caudle; I’ll 
not have my peace of mind destroyed by the best 
man that ever trod. Oh, yes ! I know you don’t 
care so long as you can appear well to all the 
world, — but the w r orld little thinks how you be- 
have to me. It shall know it, though — that I’m 
determined. 

“ How any man can leave his own happy fire- 
side to go and sit, and smoke, and drink, and talk 
with people who wouldn’t one of ’em lift a finger 
to save him from hanging — how any man can 
leave his wife — and a good wife, too, though I say 
it — for a parcel of pot-companions — oh, it’s dis- 
graceful, Mr. Caudle: it’s unfeeling. No man 
who had the least love for his wife could do it. 

“ And I suppose this is to be the case every 
Saturday ? But I know what I ’ll do. I know — 
it ’s no use, Mr. Caudle, your calling me a good 
creature: I’m not such a fool as to be coaxed in 
that way. No : if you want to go to sleep, you 
should come home in Christian time, not at half- 
past twelve. There was a time, when you were 
as regular at your fireside as the kettle. That 
was when you were a decent man, and didn’t go 
amongst, Heaven knows who, drinking and smo- 
king, and making what you think your jokes. I 
never heard any good come to a man who cared 
about jokes. No respectable tradesman does. 
But I know w r hat I ’ll do : I ’ll scare away your 
Skylarks. The house serves liquor after twelve 
of a Saturday ; and if I don’t write to the magis- 
trates, and have the license taken away, I ’m not 
lying in this bed this night. Yes, you may call 
me a foolish woman ; but no, Mr. Caudle, no ; it’s 
you who are the foolish man : or worse than a 
foolish man ; you ’re — a wicked one. If you were 


16 MRS. caudle’s 

to die to-morrow — and people who go to public- 
houses do all they can to shorten their lives — I 
should like to know who would write upon your 
tombstone, ‘A tender husband and an affectionate 
father.’ I — I ’d have no such falsehoods told of 
you, I can assure you. 

“Going and spending your money, and — non- 
sense ! don’t tell me — no, if you were to ten times 
swear it, I wouldn’t believe that you only spent 
eighteen-pence on a Saturday. You can’t be all 
those hours, and only spend eighteen-pence. I 
know better. I’m not quite a fool, Mr. Caudle. 
A great deal you could have for eighteen-pence ! 
And all the Club married men and fathers of 
families. The more shame for ’em! Skylarks, 
indeed! They should call themselves Vultures ; 
for they can only do as they do by robbing their 
innocent wives and children. Eighteen-pence a 
week! And if it was only that, — do you know 
what fifty-two eighteen-pences come to in a year? 
Do you ever think of that, and see the gowns I 
wear ? I’m sure I can’t, out of the house-money, 
buy myself a pincushion ; though I ’ve wanted 
one these six months. No — not so much as a ball 
of cotton. But what do you care, so you can get 
your brandy-and-water ? There ’s the girls, too 
— the things they want ! They ’re never dressed 
like other people’s children. But it ’s all the same 
to their father. Oh, yes ! So he can go with his 
Skylarks, they may wear sackcloth for pinafores, 
and packthread for garters. 

“ You ’d better not let that Mr. Prettyman 
come here, that’s all; or, rather, you’d better 
bring him once. Yes, I should like to see him. 
He wouldn’t forget it. A man who, I may say, 
lives and moves only in a spittoon. A man who 
has a pipe in his mouth as constant as his front 


CURTAIN LECTURES. 


17 


teeth. A sort of tavern king, with a lot of fools, 
like you, to laugh at what he thinks his jokes, and 
give him consequence. No, Mr. Caudle, no; it’s 
no use your telling me to go to sleep, for I won’t. 
Go to sleep, indeed ! I ’m sure it ’s almost time to 
get up. I hardly know what ’s the use of coming 
to bed at all now. 

“ The Skylarks, indeed ! I suppose you ’ll be 
buying a * Little Warbler,’ and at your time of 
life, be trying to sing. The peacocks will sing 
next. A pretty name you ’ll get in the neigh- 
bourhood ; and, in a very little time, a nice face 
you ’ll have. Your nose is getting redder already: 
and you’ve just one of the noses that liquor al- 
ways flies to. You don’t see it’s red? No — I 
dare say not — but 1 see it; I see a great many 
things you don’t. And so you ’ll go on. In a lit- 
tle time, with your brandy-and-water — don’t tell 
me that you only take two small glasses ; I know 
what men’s two small glasses are; in a little time 
you ’ll have a face all over as if it was made of 
red currant jam. And I should like to know 
who ’s to endure you then ? I won’t, and so don’t 
think it. Don’t come to me. 

“Nice habits men learn at clubs! There’s 
Joskins : he was a decent creature once, and now 
I ’m told he has more than once boxed his wife’s 
ears. He ’s a Skylark, too. And I suppose, some 
day, you ’ll be trying to box my ears ? Don’t 
attempt it, Mr. Caudle ; I say, don’t attempt it. 
Yes — it ’s all very well for you to say you don’t 
mean it, — but I only say again, don’t attempt it. 
You ’d rue it till the day of your death, Mr. 
Caudle. 

“ Going and sitting for four hours at a tavern ! 
What men, unless they had their wives with 
2 * 


them, can find to talk about, I can’t think. No 
good, of course. 

“Eighteen-pence a week — and drinking brandy- 
and-water, enough to swim a boat ! And smoking 
like the funnel of a steam-ship! And I can’t 
afford myself so much as a piece of tape ! It ’s 
brutal, Mr. Caudle. It ’s ve-ve-ve — ry bru — tal.” 


And, says a note in the MS. by Mr. Caudle — 
“ Here, thank heaven ! yawning, she fell asleep.” 


LECTURE IV. 

MR. CAUDLE HAS BEEN CALLED FROM HIS BED TO BAIL 
MR. PRETTYMAN FROM THE WATCH-HOUSE. 

ie, Mr. Caudle, I knew it 
would come to this. I 
said it would, when you 
joined those precious Sky- 
larks. People being called 
out of their beds at all 
hours of the night to bail 
a set of fellows who are 
never so happy as when 
they ’re leading sober men 
to destruction. I should 
like to know what the 
neighbours will think of you, with people from the 
police knocking at the door at two in the morning. 
Don’t tell me that the man has been ill-used : he ’s 
not the man to be ill-used. And you must go and 
bail him. I know the end of that : he ’ll run away, 
and you ’ll have to pay the money. I should like 



CURTAIN LECTURES. 


19 


to know what ’s the use of my working and slaving 
to save a farthing, when you throw away pounds 
upon your precious Skylarks. A pretty cold 
you ’ll have to-morrow morning, being called out 
of your warm bed this weather ; but don’t you 
think 1 ’ll nurse you — not I ; not a drop of gruel 
do you get from me. 

“ I ’m sure you ’ve plenty of ways of spending 
your money — not throwing it away upon a set of 
dissolute peace-breakers. It’s all very well for 
you to say you haven’t thrown away your money, 
but you will. He ’ll be certain to run off ; it isn’t 
likely he ’ll go upon his trial, and you ’ll be fixed 
with the bail. Don’t tell me there ’s no trial in 
the matter, because I know there is ; it ’s for some- 
thing more than quarrelling with the policeman 
that he was locked up. People aint locked up for 
that. No, it ’s for robbery, or something worse, 
perhaps. 

“And as you ’ve bailed him, people will think 
you are as bad as he is. Don’t tell me you 
couldn’t help bailing him ; you should have shown 
yourself a respectable man, and have let him been 
sent to prison. 

" Now people know you ’re the friend of drunken 
and other disorderly persons, you ’ll never have 
a night’s sleep in your bed. Not that it would 
matter what fell upon you, if it wasn’t your poor 
wife who suffered. Of course all the business will 
be in the newspapers, and your name with it. I 
shouldn’t wonder, too, if they give your picture 
as they do the other folks of the Old Bailey. A 
pretty thing that, to go down to your children. 
I ’m sure it will be enough to make them change 
their name. No, I shall not go to sleep ; it ’s all 
very well for you to say, go to sleep, after such a 
disturbance. I shall not go 


20 


MRS. CAUDLE’S 


But here, says Mr. Caudle’s manuscript, hap- 
pily she slumbered; for Mr. Caudle had, consider- 
ing the theme she had to talk upon, a remarkably 
short lecture. 


LECTURE V. 

MR. CAUDLE HAS REMAINED DOWN STAIRS TILL PAST ONE, 
WITH A FRIEND. 


pretty time of night to come to 
bed, Mr. Caudle. Ugh ! 
As cold, too, as any ice. 
Enough to give any wo- 
man her death, I’m sure. 
What ! I shouldn’t have 
locked up the coals, in- 
deed? If I hadn’t, I’ve 
no doubt the fellow would 
have staid all night. It’s 
all very well for you, Mr. 
Caudle, to bring people 
home, — but I wish you’d 
think first what’s for sup- 
per. That beautiful leg 
of pork would have served 
for our dinner to-morrow, — and now it’s gone. I 
can’t keep the house upon the money, and I won’t 
pretend to do it, if you bring a mob of people every 
night to clear the cupboard. 

44 1 wonder who’ll be so ready to give you a 
supper when you want one ; for want one you 
will, unless you change your plans. Don’t tell 
me! I know I’m right. You’ll first be eaten up, 



CURTAIN LECTURES. 21 

and then you ’ll be laughed at. I know the world. 
No, indeed, Mr. Caudle, I don’t think ill of every- 
body ; don’t say that. ^ But I can’t see a leg of 
pork eaten up in that way, without asking myself 
what it ’s all to end in if such things go on'? And 
then he must have pickles, too ! Couldn’t be con- 
tent with my cabbage— no, Mr. Caudle, I won’t 
let you go to sleep. It ’s very well for you to say 
let you go to sleep, after you ’ve kept me awake 
till this time. Why did I keep awake ? How do 
you suppose I could go to sleep, when I knew that 
man was below drinking up your substance in 
brandy-and-water ? for he couldn’t be content 
upon decent, wholesome gin. Upon my word, 
you ought to be a rich man, Mr. Caudle. You 
have such very fine friends. I wonder who gives 
you brandy when you go out ! 

“ No, indeed, he couldn’t be content with my 
pickled cabbage — and' I should like to know who 
makes better — but he must have walnuts. And 
you, too, like a fool — now, don’t you think to stop 
me, Mr. Caudle ; a poor woman may be trampled 
to death, and never say a word — you, too, like a 
fool — I wonder who ’d do it for you — to insist 
upon the girl going out for pickled walnuts. And 
in such a night too ! With snow upon the ground. 
Yes; you’re a man of fine feelings, you are, Mr. 
Caudle ! but the world doesn’t know you as I 
know you — fine feelings, indeed ! to send the poor 
girl out, when I told you and told your friend, 
too — a pretty brute he is, I ’m sure — that the poor 
girl had got a cold and chilblains on her toes. 
But I know what will be the end of that; she ’ll 
be laid up, and we shall have a nice doctor’s bill. 
And you ’ll pay it, I can tell you — for 1 wont. 

“ Wish you were out of the world ? Oh ! yes, 
that’s all very easy, I’m sure / might wish it. 


22 


MRS. CAUDLE ’s 


Don’t swear in that dreadful way ! Ain’t you 
afraid that the bed will open and swallow you ? 
And don’t swing about in that way. That will 
do no good. That won’t bring back the leg of 
pork, — and the brandy you ’ve poured down both 
of your throats. Oh, I know it ! I ’in sure of it. 
I only recollected it when I ’d got into bed, — and 
if it hadn’t been so cold, you ’d have seen me 
down stairs again, I can tell you — I recollected it, 
and a pretty two hours I ’ve passed, that I left 
the key in the cupboard, — and I knew it — I could 
see by the manner of you, when you came into 
the room — I know you’ve got the other bottle. 
However, there’s one comfort: you told me to 
send for the best brandy — the very best — for your 
other friend, who called last Wednesday. Ha ! 
ha! It was British — the cheapest British — and 
nice and ill I hope the pair of you will be to- 
morrow. 

“ There’s only the bare bone of the leg of pork: 
but you ’ll get nothing else for dinner, I can tell 
you. It ’s a dreadful thing that the poor children 
should go without, — but, if they have such a 
father, they, poor things, must suffer for it. 

“Nearly a whole leg of pork and a pint of 
brandy ! A pint of brandy and a leg of pork. A 
leg of— leg — leg pint — ” 

And mumbling the syllables, says Mr. Caudle’s 
MS., she went to sleep. 


CURTAIN LECTURES. 


23 


LECTURE VI. 

MR. CAUDLE HAS LENT AN ACQUAINTANCE THE FAMILY 
UMBRELLA. MRS. CAUDLE LECTURES THEREON. 

Bah ! That *s the third umbrella gone since 
Christmas. What were you to do ! Why let him 
go home in the rain, to be sure. I ’m very certain 
there was nothing about him that could spoil. 
Take cold, indeed! He doesn’t look like one of 
the sort to take cold. Besides he ’d have better 
taken cold than take our only umbrella. Do you 
hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear 
the rain ? And as I ’m alive, if it isn’t Saint 
Swithin’s day ! Do you hear it against the win- 
dows ? Nonsense ; you don’t impose upon me. 
You can’t be asleep with such a shower as that! 
Do you hear it, I say ? Oh you do hear it ! Well, 
that ’s a pretty flood, I think, to last for six 
weeks; and no stirring all the time out of the 
house. Pooh ! Don’t think me a fool, Mr. Caudle. 
Don’t insult me. He return the umbrella ! Any- 
body would think you were born ( yesterday. As 
if anybody ever did return an umbrella ! There 
— do you hear it ? Worse and worse ! Cats and 
dogs, and for six weeks — always six weeks. And 
no umbrella ! 

“ I should like to know how the children are to 
get to school to-morrow. They shan’t go through 
such weather, I ’m determined. No: they shall stop 
at home arid never learn anything — the blessed 
creatures ! — sooner than go and get wet. And 
when they grow up, I wonder who they ’ll have 


21 


MRS. CAUDLE’S 


to thank for knowing nothing — who, indeed, but 
their father ? People who can’t feel for their own 
children ought never to be fathers. 

“ But I know why you lent the umbrella. Oh, 
yes ; I know very well. I was going out to tea 
at dear mother’s to-morrow, — you knew that ; and 
you did it on purpose. Don’t tell me ; you hate 
me to go there, and take every mean advantage 
to hinder me. But don’t you think it, Mr. Caudle. 
No, sir; if it comes down in buckets-full, I ’ll go 
all the more. No : and I won’t have a cab ! 
Where do you think the money’s to come from ? 
You’ve got nice high notions at that club of 
yours ! A cab, indeed ! Cost me sixteenpence at 
least — sixteenpence ! — - two-and-eightpence, for 
there ’s back again ! Cabs, indeed ! I should like 
to know who ’s to pay for ’em ? I can’t pay for 
’em; and I ’m sure you can’t, if you go on as you 
do ; throwing away your property, and beggaring 
your children — buying umbrellas ? 

“ Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle ? I say do 
you hear it ? But I don’t care — I ’ll go to mother’s 
to-morrow : I will ; and what ’s more, I ’ll walk 
every step of the way, — and you know that will 
give me my death. Don’t call me a foolish woman 
— it ’s you that ’s the foolish man. You know I 
can’t wear clogs ; and with no umbrella, that ’s 
sure to give me a cold — it always does. But what 
do you care for that ? Nothing at all. I may be 
laid up for what you care, as I dare say I shall — 
and a pretty doctor’s bill there ’ll be. I hope 
there will ! It will teach you to lend your um- 
brellas again. I shouldn’t wonder if I caught my 
death ; yes : and that ’s what you lent the umbrella 
for. Of course. 

“ Nice clothes, I shall get too, trapesing through 
weather like this. My gown and bonnet will be 


CURTAIN LECTURES. 


25 


spoilt quite. Needn’t I wear ’em then ? Indeed, 
Mr. Caudle, I shall wear ’em. No, sir, I ’m not 
going out a dowdy to please you or anybody else. 
Gracious knows ! it isn’t often that I step over the 
threshold ; indeed, I might as well be a slave at 
once, — better, I should say. But when I do. go 
out, Mr. Caudle, I choose to go as a lady. Oh ! 
that rain — if it isn’t enough to break in the win- 
dows. 

“ Ugh ! I do look forward with dread for to- 
morrow. How I am to go to mother’s I ’m sure 
I can’t tell. But if I die, I ’ll do it. No, sir ; I 
won’t borrow an umbrella. No ; and you shan’t 
buy one. ( With great emphasis.) Mr. Caudle, 
if you bring home another umbrella, I ’ll throw it 
in the street. I ’ll have my own umbrella or none 
at all. 

“ Ha ! and it was only last week I had a new 
nozle put to that umbrella. I ’m sure if I ’d have 
known as much as I do now, it might have gone 
without one for me. Paying for new nozles, for 
other people to laugh at you. Oh, it’s all very 
well for you — you can go to sleep. You’ve no 
thought of your poor patient wife, and your own 
dear children. You think of nothing but lending 
umbrellas ! 

“ Men, indeed ! — Call themselves lords of the 
creation ! — pretty lords when they can’t take care 
of an umbrella ! 

“ I know that walk to-morrow will be the death 
of me. But that ’s what you want — then you may 
go to your club, and do as you like — and then, 
nicely my poor dear children will be used — but 
then, sir, then you ’ll be happy. Oh, don’t tell 
me ! I know you will. Else you ’d never have 
lent the umbrella ! 

“ You have to go on Thursday about that sum- 
3 


2 G 


MRS. CAUDLE ’s 


mons ; and, of course, you can’t go. No, indeed, 
you don’t go without the umbrella. You may 
lose the debt for what I care — it won’t be so much 
as spoiling your clothes — better lose it : people 
deserve to lose debts who lend umbrellas. 

“And I should like to know how I ’m to go to 
jnother’s without the umbrella ? Oh, don’t tell 
me that I said I would go — that ’s nothing to do 
with it ; nothing at all. She ’ll think I ’m neglect- 
ing her, and the little money we were to have, we 
shan’t have at all — because w 7 e ’ve no umbrella. 

“ The children, too ! Dear things ! They ’ll 
be sopping wet : for they shan’t stop at home — 
they shan’t lose their learning ; it ’s all their father 
will leave ’em, I ’m sure. But they shall go to 
school. Don’t tell me I said they shouldn’t : you 
are so aggravating, Caudle ; you ’d spoil the tem- 
per of an angel. They shall go to school ; mark 
that. And if they get their deaths of cold, it ’s 
not my fault — /didn’t lend the umbrella.” 

“ Here,” says Caudle in his MS, “ I fell asleep ; 
and dreamt that the sky was turned into green 
calico, with whalebone ribs ; that, in fact, the 
whole world revolved under a tremendous um- 
brella !” 


CURTAIN LECTURES. 


27 


LECTURE VII. 



MR. CAUDLE HAS VENTURED A REMONSTRANCE ON HIS DAY’S 
DINNER: COLD MUTTON, AND NO PUDDING. MRS. CAUDLE 
DEFENDS THE COLD SHOULDER. 

ijmph ! I’m sure ! Well ! 
I wonder what it 
will be next! There’s 
nothing proper, now 
— nothing at all. 
Better get some- 
body else to keep 
the house I think. 
I can’t do it now, 
it seems; I’m only 
in the way here: 
I ’d better take the 
children, and go. 
“What am I grumbling about now? It ’s very 
well for you to ask that ! I ’m sure I ’d better be 
out of the world than — there now, Mr. Caudle; 
there you are again ! I shall speak, sir. It isn’t 
often I open my mouth, heaven knows ! But you 
like to hear nobody talk but yourself. You ought 
to have married a negro slave, and not any re- 
spectable woman. 

“ You ’re to go about the house looking like 
thunder all the day, and I ’m not to say a word. 
Where do you think pudding’s to come from 
every-day? You show a nice example to your 
children, you do ; complaining, and turning your 
nose up at a sweet piece of cold mutton, because 
there ’s no pudding ! You go a nice way to make 
’em extravagant — teach ’em nice lessons to begin 


28 


MRS. CAUDLE’S 


the world with. Do you know what puddings 
cost ; or do you think they fly in at the window ? 

“ You hate cold mutton. The more shame for 
you, Mr. Caudle. I ’m sure you ’ve the stomach 
of a lord, you have. No, sir ; I didn’t choose to 
hash the mutton. It ’s very easy for you to say 
hash it ; but / know what a joint loses in hashing : 
it ’s a day’s dinner the less, if it ’s a bit. Yes, I 
dare say; other people may have puddings with 
cold mutton. No doubt of it ; and other people 
become bankrupts. But if ever you get into the 
Gazette, it shan’t be my fault — no; I’ll do my 
duty as a wife to you, Mr. Caudle ; you shall 
never have it to say that it was my housekeeping 
that brought you to beggary. No; you may 
sulk at the cold meat — ha ! I hope you ’ll never 
live to want such a piece of cold mutton as we 
had to-day ! And you may threaten to go to a 
tavern to dine; but with our present means, not 
a crumb of pudding do you get from me. You 
shall have nothing but the cold joint — nothing as 
I ’m a Christian sinner. 

“ Yes*; there you are, throwing those fowls in 
my face again ! I know you once brought home a 
pair of fowls ; I know it ; and wern’t you mean 
enough to want to stop ’em out of my week’s 
money'? Oh, the selfishness — the shabbiness of 
men ! They can go out and throw away pounds 
upon pounds with a pack of people who laugh at 
’em afterwards ; but if it ’s anything wanted for 
their own homes, their poor wives may hunt for 
it. I wonder you don’t blush to name those fowls 
again ! I wouldn’t be so little for the world, Mr. 
Caudle ! 

“ What are you going to do ? Going to get up? 
Don’t make yourself ridiculous, Mr. Caudle ; I 
can’t say a word to you like any other wife, but 


CURTAIN LECTURES. 29 

you must threaten to get up. Do be ashamed of 
yourself. 

“ Puddings, indeed ! Do you think I ’m made 
of puddings? Didn’t you have some boiled rice 
three weeks ago? Besides, is this the time of the 
year for puddings? It’s all very well if I had 
money enough allowed me like any other wife to 
keep the house with ; then, indeed, I might have 
preserves, like any other woman; now, it’s im- 
possible ; and it ’s cruel — yes, Mr. Caudle, cruel 
— of you to expect it. 

“ Apples arn’t so dear, arn’t they ? I know 
what apples are, Mr. Caudle, without your telling 
me. But I suppose you want something more 
than apples for dumplings? I suppose sugar costs 
something, doesn’t it? And that’s how it is. 
That ’s how one expense brings on another, and 
that ’s how people go to ruin. 

“ Pancakes ! What ’s the use of your lying 
muttering there about pancakes? Don’t you al- 
ways have ’em once a-year — every Shrove Tues- 
day ? And what would any moderate, decent man 
want more? 

“Pancakes, indeed! Pray, Mr. Caudle, — no, 
it ’s no use your saying fine words to me to let 
you go to sleep; I shan’t! — pray do you know 
the price of eggs just now ? There ’s not an egg 
you can trust to under seven and eight a shilling; 
well, you ’ve only just to reckon up how many 
eggs — don’t lie swearing there at the eggs, in that 
manner, Mr. Caudle ; unless you expect the bed 
to open under you. You call yourself a respect- 
able tradesman, I suppose! Ha! I only wish 
people knew you as well as I do ! Swearing at 
eggs, indeed ! But I ’m tired of this usage, Mr. 
Caudle ; quite tired of it ; and I don’t care how 
soon it ’s ended ! 

3 * 


30 


MRS. CAUDLE’S 


“ I ’m sure I do nothing but work and labour, 
and think how to make the most of everything; 
and this is how I ’m rewarded. I should like to 
see anybody whose joints go further than mine. 
But if I was to throw away your money into the 
street, or lay it out in fine feathers on myself, I 
should be better thought of. The woman who 
studies her husband and her family is always 
made a drudge of. It ’s your fine fal-lal wives 
who ’ve the best time of it. 

“ What ’s the use of your lying groaning there 
in that manner ? That won’t make me hold my 
tongue, I can tell you. You think to have it all 
your own way — but you won’t, Mr. Caudle! 
You can insult my dinner; look like a demon, I 
may say, at a wholesome piece of cold mutton — 
ha ! the thousands of far better creatures than 
you are who ’d been thankful for that mutton ! — 
and I ’m never to speak ! But you ’re mistaken — 
I will ! Your usage of me, Mr. Caudle, is infamous 
— unworthy of a man. I only wish people knew 
you for w r hat you are ; but they shall, some day. 

“ Puddings ! And now I suppose I shall hear of 
nothing but puddings ! Yes, and I know what it 
would end in. First, you ’d have a pudding every 
day; — oh, I know your extravagance — then you’d 
go for fish — then I shouldn’t w 7 onder if you’d have 
soup ; turtle, no doubt : then you ’d go for a des- 
sert ; and — oh ! I see it all as plain as the quilt 
before me — but no ! not while I live ! What your 
second wife may do, I don’t know; perhaps she' 11 
be a fine lady; but you shan’t be ruined by me, 
Mr. Caudle; that I’m determined. Puddings, 
indeed! Pu-dding-s ! Pudd — ” 

“ Exhausted nature,” says Caudle, “could hold 
no longer. Here my wife w r ent to sleep.” 


CURTAIN LECTURES. 


31 


LECTURE VIII. 

CAUDLE HAS BEEN MADE A MASON. — MRS. CAUDLE INDIG- 
NANT AND CURIOUS. 

“Now, Mr. Caudle — Mr. Caudle, I say: oh! 
you can’t be asleep already, I know — Now, what 
I mean to say is this ; there ’s no use, none at all, 
in our having any disturbance about the matter ; 
but, at last my mind’s made up, Mr. Caudle; I 
shall leave you. Either I know all you ’ve been 
doing to-night, or to-morrow morning I quit the 
house. No, no ; there ’s an end of the marriage- 
state, I think — an end of all confidence between 
man and wife — if a husband ’s to have secrets and 
keep ’em all to himself. Pretty secrets they must 
be, when his own wife can’t know ’em. Not fit 
for any decent person to know, I ’m sure, if that ’s 
the case. Now, Caudle, don’t let us quarrel; 
there ’s a good soul, tell me what ’s it all about ? 
A pack of nonsense, I dare say; still — not that I 
care much about it — still, I should like to know. 
There ’s a dear. Eh ? Oh, don’t tell me there ’s 
nothing in it; I know better. I ’m not a fool, Mr. 
Caudle; I know there ’s a good deal in it. Now, 
Caudle, just tell me a little bit of it. I ’m sure I ’d 
tell you anything. You know I would. Well? 

“Caudle, you’re enough to vex a saint! Now, 
don’t you think you ’re going to sleep ; because 
you ’re not. Do you suppose I ’d ever suffered 
you to go and be made a mason, if I didn’t sup- 
pose I was to know the secret, too ? Not that it ’s 
anything to know, I dare say; and that ’s why I ’m 
determined to know it. 


32 


MRS. CAUDLE’S 

“But I know what it is; oh yes, there can be 
no doubt. The secret is, to ill-use poor women ; 
to tyrannize over ’em ; to make ’em your slaves ; 
especially your wives. It must be something of 
the sort, or you wouldn’t be ashamed to have it 
known. What ’s right and proper never need be 
done in secret. It ’s an insult to a woman for a 
man to be a free-mason, and let his wife know 
nothing of it. But, poor soul ! she ’s sure to know 
it somehow — for nice husbands they all make. 
Yes, yes; a part of the secret is to think better of 
all the world than their own wives and families. 
I ’m sure men have quite enough to care for — that 
is, if they act properly — to care for them they have 
at home. They can’t have much care to spare for 
the world besides. 

“And I suppose they call you Brother Caudle? 
A pretty brother, indeed! Going and dressing 
yourself up in an apron, like a turnpike man — for 
that ’s what you look like. And I should like to 
know what the apron ’s for? There must be some- 
thing in it not very respectable, I ’m sure. Well, 
I only wish I was Queen for a day or two. I ’d 
put an end to free-masonry, and all such trumpery, 
I know. 

“Now, come, Caudle, don’t let ’s quarrel. Eh! 
You ’re not in pain, dear? What ’s it all about? 
What are you lying laughing there at ? But I ’m 
a fool to trouble my head about you. 

“And you’re not going to let me know the 
secret, eh? You mean to say, — you’re not? 
Now, Caudle, you know it ’s a hard matter to put 
me in a passion — not that I care about the secret 
itself : no, I wouldn’t give a button to know it, for 
it ’s all nonsense, I ’m sure. It isn’t the secret I 
care about : it ’s the slight, Mr. Caudle ; it’s the 
studied insult that a man pays to his wife, when 


CURTAIN LECTURES. 


33 


he thinks of going through the world keeping some- 
thing to himself which he won’t let her know. 
Man and wife one, indeed ! I should like to know 
how that can be when a man ’s a mason — when 
he keeps a secret that sets him and his wife apart? 
Ha, you men make the laws, and so you take good 
care to have all the best of ’em to yourselves ; 
otherwise a woman ought to be allowed a divorce 
when a man becomes a mason. When he ’s got a 
sort of corner-cupboard in his heart — a secret place 
in his mind — that his poor wife isn’t allowed to 
rummage ! 

“Caudle, you shan’t close your eyes for a week 
— no, you shan’t — unless you tell me some of it. 
Come, there ’s a good creature ; there ’s a love. 
I ’m sure, Caudle, I wouldn’t refuse you anything 
— and you know it, or ought to know it by this 
time. I only wish I had a secret ! To whom 
should I think of confiding it, but to my dear hus- 
band ? I should be miserable to keep it to myself, 
and you know it. Now, Caudle ! 

“Was there ever such a man? A man, indeed! 
A brute! — yes, Mr. Caudle, an unfeeling, brutal 
creature, when you might oblige me, and you 
won’t. I ’m sure I don’t object to your being a 
mason ; not at all, Caudle ; i dare say it ’s a very 
good thing ; I dare say it is — it ’s only your mak- 
ing a secret of it that vexes me. But you ’ll tell 
me — you ’ll tell your own Margaret? You won’t ! 
You ’re a wretch, Mr. Caudle. 

“But I know why: oh, yes, I can tell. The fact 
is, you ’re ashamed to let me know what a fool 
they ’ve been making of you. That ’s it. You, 
at your time of life — the father of a family. I 
should be ashamed of myself, Caudle. 

“And I suppose you’ll be going to what you 
call your Lodge every night, now. Lodge, indeed ! 


34 


MRS. CAUDLE’S 


Pretty place it mast be, where they don’t admit 
women. Nice goings on, I dare say. Then you 
call one another brethren. Brethren! I’m sure 
you ’d relations enough ; you didn’t want any 
more. 

“But I know what all this masonry’s about. 
It ’s only an excuse to get away from your wives 
and families, that you may feast and drink toge- 
ther, that ’s all. That ’s the secret. And to abuse 
women, — as if they were inferior animals, and not 
to be trusted. That’s the secret; and nothing 
else. 

“Now, Caudle, don’t let us quarrel. Yes, I 
know you ’re in pain. Still, Caudle, my love ; 
Caudle! Dearest, I say! Caudle! Caud — ” 

“I recollect nothing more,” says Caudle, “for 
here, thank Providence ! I fell asleep.” 


CURTAIN LECTURES. 


35 


LECTURE IX. 

MR. CAUDLE HAS BEEN TO GREENWICH FAIR. 

em ! — So, Mr. Caudle : I 
hope you enjoyed yourself at 
Greenwich. How do I know 
you’ve been at Greenwich? 
I know it very well, sir: 
know all about it : know more 
than you think I know. I 
thought there was something 
in the wind. Yes; I was 
sure of it, when you went 
out of the house, to-day. I 
knew it by the looks of you, though I didn’t say 
anything. Upon my word! And you call your- 
self a respectable man, and the father of a family! 
Going to a fair amongst all sorts of people, — at 
your time of life. Yes; and never think of 
taking your wife with you. Oh, no ! you can go 
and enjoy yourself out, with, I don’t know who : 
go out, and make yourself very pleasant, I dare 
say. Don’t tell me; I hear what a nice com- 
panion Mr. Caudle is : what a good-tempered 
person. Ha ! I only wish people could see you at 
home, that ’s all. But so it is with men. They 
can keep all their good temper for out-of-doors — 
their wives never see any of it. Oh, dear ! I ’m 
sure I don’t know who ’d be a poor woman ! 

“ Now, Caudle, I ’m not in an ill temper; not 
at all. I know I used to be a fool when we were 



36 


MRS. CAUDLE’S 


first married: I used to worry and fret myself to 
death, when you went out; but I’ve got over that. 
I wouldn’t put myself out of the way now for the 
best man that ever trod. For what thanks does 
a poor woman get ? None at all. No : it ’s those 
who don’t care for their families, who are the best 
thought of. I only wish I could bring myself not 
to care for mine. 

“And why couldn’t you say, like a. man, you 
were going to Greenwich Fair, when you went 
out? It’s no use your saying that, Mr. Caudle : 
don’t tell me that you didn’t think of going; 
you ’d made your mind up to it, and you know it. 
Pretty games you ’ve had, no doubt ! I should 
like to have been behind you, that’s all. A man 
at your time of life ! 

“And I, of course, I never want to go out. Oh, 
no! I may stay at home with the cat. You 
couldn’t think of taking your wife and children, 
like any other decent man, to a fair. Oh, no; you 
never care to be seen with us. I ’m sure, many 
people don’t know you ’re married: how can they? 
Your wife’s never seen with you. Oh, no; any- 
body but those belonging to you ! 

“ Greenwich Fair, indeed ! Yes, — and of course 
you went up and down the hill, running and 
racing with nobody knows who. Don’t tell me ; 
I know what you are when you’re out. You 
don’t suppose, Mr. Caudle, I ’ve forgotten that 
pink bonnet, do you ? No : I won’t hold my tongue, 
and I ’m not a foolish woman. It ’s no matter, 
sir, if the pink bonnet was fifty years ago — it’s 
all the same for that. No : and if I live for fifty 
years to come, I never will leave off talking of it. 
You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Cau- 
dle. Ha ! few wives would have been what I ’ve 
been to you. I only wish my time was to come 


CURTAIN LECTURES. 37 

over again, that ’s all ; I wouldn’t be the fool I 
have been. 

“ Going to a fair ! and I suppose you had your 
fortune told by the gypsies? You needn’t have 
wasted your money. I ’m sure I can tell you 
your fortune if you go on as you do. Yes, the 
gaol will be your fortune, Mr. Caudle. And it 
would be no matter — none at all — if your wife 
and children didn’t suffer with you. 

“ And then you must go riding upon donkeys — 
you didn’t go riding upon donkeys? Yes; it’s 
very well for you to say so ; but I dare say you 
did. I tell you, Caudle, I know what you are 
when you ’re out. I wouldn’t trust any of you — 
you, especially, Caudle. 

“Then you must go in the thick of the fair, and 
have the girls scratching your coat with rattles ! 
You couldn’t help it, if they did scratch your 
coat ? Don’t tell me ; people don’t scratch coats 
unless they ’re encouraged to do it. And you 
must go in a swing, too. You didn’t go in a 
swing? And I ’m a foolish woman to think so, 
am I ? Well, if you didn’t, it was no fault of 
yours ; you wished to go, I ’ve no doubt. 

“ And then you must go into the shows ? There, 
— you don’t deny that. You did go into a show. 
What of it, Mr. Caudle? A good deal of it, sir. 
Nice crowding and squeezing in those shows, I 
know. Pretty places ! And you a married man 
and the father of a family. No: I won’t hold my 
tongue. It ’s very well for you to threaten to get 
up. You’re to go to Greenwich Fair, and race 
up and down the hill, and play at kiss in the ring. 
Pah ! it ’s disgusting, Mr. Caudle. Oh, I dare say 
you did play at it; if you didn’t, you’d have 
liked, and that’s just as bad; — and you can go 
into swings, and shows, and roundabouts. If I 
4 


38 


MRS. CAUDLE’S 


was you, I should hide my head under the clothes, 
and be ashamed of myself. 

“ And what is most selfish — most mean of you, 
Caudle — you can go and enjoy yourself, and never 
so much as bring home for the poor children a 
gingerbread-nut. Don’t tell me that your pocket 
was picked of a pound of nuts ! Nice company 
you must have been in to have your pocket 
picked. 

“ But I dare say I shall hear all about it to- 
morrow. I ’ve no doubt, sir, you were dancing 
at the Crown-and-Anchor. I should like to have 
seen you. No : I ’m not making myself ridiculous. 
It’s you that’s making yourself ridiculous; and 
everybody that knows you says so. Everybody 
knows what I have to put up with from you. 

“ Going to a fair, indeed ! At your time ” 

“ Here,” says Caudle, “ I dozed off, hearing con- 
fusedly the words — hill — gypsies — rattles — round- 
about — swings — pink bonnet — nuts.” 


CURTAIN LECTURES. 


39 


LECTURE X. 

ON MR. CAUDLE’S SHIRT-BUTTONS. 

There, Mr. Caudle, I hope you ’re in a little 
better temper than you were this morning? There 
— you needn’t begin to whistle : people don’t come 
to bed to whistle. But it’s like you. I can’t 
speak, that you don’t try to insult me. Once, I 
used to say, you were the best creature living: 
now, you get quite a fiend. Do let you rest? No: 
I won’t let you rest. It ’s the only time I have to 
talk to you, and you shall hear me. I ’m put upon 
all day long: it’s very hard if I can’t speak a 
word at night ; and it isn’t often I open my mouth, 
goodness knows ! 

“ Because once in your lifetime your shirt want- 
ed a button, you must almost swear the roof off 
the house ! You didn’t swear? Ha, Mr. Caudle ! 
you don’t know what you do when you ’re in a 
passion. You were not in a passion, wer’n’t you? 
Well, then, I don’t know what a passion is — and 
I think I ought by this time. I ’ve lived long 
enough with you, Mr. Caudle, to know that. 

“It’s a pity you havn’t something worse to 
complain of than a button off your shirt. If you’d 
some wives, you would, I know. I ’m sure I ’m 
never without a needle-and-thread in my hand. 
What with you and the children, I ’m made a 
perfect slave of. And what ’s my thanks ? Why, 
if once in your life a button’s off your shirt — 
what do you cry ‘ oh’ at ? I say once, Mr. Cau- 


40 


MRS. CAUDLE’S 


die ; or twice, or three times, at most. I ’m sure, 
Caudle, no man’s buttons in the world are better 
looked after than your’s. I only wish I’d kept 
the shirts you had when you were first married ! 
I should like to know where were your buttons 
then ? 

“ Yes, it is -worth talking of! But that ’s how 
you always try to put me down. You fly into a 
rage, and then if I only try to speak, you won’t 
hear me. That ’s how you men always will have 
all the talk to yourselves: a poor woman isn’t 
allowed to get a word in. 

“ A nice notion you have of a wife, to suppose 
she ’s nothing to think of but her husband’s but- 
tons. A pretty notion, indeed, you have of mar- 
riage. Ha ! if poor women only knew what they 
had to go through ! What with buttons, and one 
thing and another! They’d never tie themselves 
up to the best man in the world, I ’m sure. What 
would they do, Mr. Caudle? Why, do much bet- 
ter without you, I ’m certain. 

“ And it ’s my belief, after all, that the button 
wasn’t off the shirt : it ’s my belief that you pull- 
ed it off, that you might have something to talk 
about. Oh, you ’re aggravating enough, when 
you like, for anything ! All I know is, it ’s very 
odd that the button should be off the shirt ; for 
I ’m sure no woman ’s a greater slave to her hus- 
band’s buttons than I am. I only say, it^s very 
odd. 

“ However, there ’s one comfort ; it can’t last 
long. I ’m worn to death with your temper, and 
sha’n’t trouble you a great while. Ha, you may 
laugh ! And I dare say you would laugh ! I ’ve 
no doubt of it! That’s your love — that’s your 
feeling ! I know that I ’m sinking every day, 
though I say nothing about it. And when I ’m 


CURTAIN LECTURES. 41 

gone, we shall see how your second wife will look 
after your buttons ! You ’ll find out the difference, 
then. Yes, Caudle, you ’ll think of me, then : for 
then, I hope, you ’ll never have a blessed button 
to your back. 

“ No, I ’m not a vindictive woman, Mr. Caudle , 
nobody ever called me that, but you. What do 
you say? Nobody ever knew so much of me? 
That ’s nothing at all to do with it. Ha ! I 
wouldn’t have your aggravating temper, Caudle, 
for mines of gold. It’s a good thing I’m not as 
worrying as you are — or a nice house there ’d be 
between us. I only wish you ’d had a wife that 
would have talked to you ! then you ’d have known 
the difference. But you impose upon me, because, 
like a poor fool, I say nothing. I should be 
ashamed of myself, Caudle. 

“And a pretty example you set as a father; 
You ’ll make your boys as bad as yourself. Talk- 
ing as you did all breakfast-time about your but- 
tons ! And of a Sunday morning too! And you 
call yourself a Christian ! I should like to know 
what your boys will say of you when they grow 
up? And all about a paltry button oft' one of 
your wristbands : a decent man wouldn’t have 
mentioned it. Why won’t I hold my tongue ? 
Because I won't hold my tongue. I 'm to have 
my peace. of mind destroyed — I’m to be worried 
into my grave for a miserable shirt-button, and 
I ’m to hold my tongue ! Oh ! but that ’s just like 
you, men ! 

“ But I know what I ’ll do for the future. Every 
button you have may drop off, and I won’t so 
much as put a thread to ’em. And I should like 
to know what you ’ll do then ? Oh, you must get 
somebody else to sew ’em, must you ? That ’s a 
pretty threat for a husband to hold out to a wife ! 

4# 


42 MRS. caudle’s curtain lectures. 

And to such a wife as I’ve been, too: such a 
negro-slave to your buttons, as I may say ! Some- 
body else to sew ’em, eh ? No, Caudle, no : not 
while I ’m alive ! When I ’m dead — and with 
what I have to bear there ’s no knowing how soon 
that may be — when I ’m dead, I say — oh! what a 
brute you must be to snore so ! 

“You’re not snoring? Ha! that’s what you 
always say ; but that ’s nothing to do with it. 
You must get somebody else to sew ’em, must 
you ? Ha ! I shouldn’t wonder. Oh, no ! I should 
be surprised at nothing, now ! Nothing at all ! 
It ’s what people have always told me it would 
come to, — and now, the buttons have opened my 
eyes ! But the whole world shall know of your 
cruelty, Mr. Caudle. After the wife I ’ve been to 
you. Somebody else, indeed, to sew your but- 
tons ! I’m no longer to be mistress in my own 
house ! Ha, Caudle ! I wouldn’t have upon my 
conscience what you have, for the world ! I 
wouldn’t treat anybody as you treat — no, I ’m not 
mad ! It ’s you, Mr. Caudle, who are mad, or bad 
— and that ’s worse ! I can’t even so much as 
speak of a shirt-button, but that I ’m threatened 
to be made nobody of in my own house ! Cau- 
dle, you ’ve a heart like a hearth-stone, you have! 
To threaten me, and only because a button — a 
button ” 

“ I was conscious of no more than this,” says 
Caudle, in his MS., “ for here nature relieved me 
with a sweet, deep sleep.” 
















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